by Lex Lander
‘You mean I had a choice. They said you won’t enter France.’ Hands in pockets he swivelled round to look her in the eye.
She made a throwaway motion and sank into a very low, tan-coloured lounge chair. She wasn’t about to invoke her connection with Greenpeace and the arrests of her former colleagues by the French authorities.
‘I have no problem entering France, but I prefer to restrict my visits to the absolutely essential.’
Lux drifted towards the balcony window. ‘So this job you’re hiring me to do doesn’t count as absolutely essential?’
‘It’s not that. You were able to come here, so why should I go there?’
‘Uh-huh,’ Lux said again, a form of articulation that offended Sheryl’s Masters Degree in English. ‘The boss lady beckons and everyone comes running.’
‘Just boss will do. Skip the lady.’
‘So let’s talk … boss. How does an American come to be mixed up in this business?’
Sheryl, fully briefed on Barail’s coup d’état subterfuge, had her answer to hand.
‘It’s not so complicated. I represent the purse strings. And the purse is not French.’
‘So another country is putting up money to waste a French president.’ Lux was bemused. ‘Who the hell would that be? More to the point, why the hell would that be?’
‘An enigma, isn’t it?’ Sheryl said, with calculated condescension. ‘Now do you want to discuss your money or not.’
‘Discuss? You know my price. You’ve had time to do the sums. What’s your answer?’
‘Ten million US?’ Sheryl made a face. ‘Those are very big bucks, chum. I wanted to meet you, see for myself if you really amount to so many dollars. What I’ve seen so far doesn’t impress me specially. Perhaps you’d like to run your CV by me, so to speak. Barail seems to think you’re the man for the job but I’m not sure I trust his judgement ten million dollars’ worth.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Lux said yet again, irritatingly, declining to take offence at the aspersions she had cast on his talents.
Outside it was dusk. The weather was grey and drizzling, just as Simonelli, a committed Anglophobe, had predicted it would be. Traffic trundled wearily past in the street two floors down, a more or less endless stream as the lemmings headed for home, one body per car, very occasionally two. Cars per se offended Sheryl’s anti-pollution instincts; under-utilised cars were a criminal waste.
‘Who owns this place?’ Lux asked.
‘A friend and fellow-countryman,’ Sheryl said, irked by what she saw as his stalling. She could feel one of her famous headaches coming on and was not in the mood for idle chat.
‘In other words, don’t ask.’ Lux lowered his haunches onto a low chintzy couch and looked at her through an insolent half-grin, letting his gaze travel over her body. She was wearing pants, loose cut after the mode of the day, but her top was scooped low enough at the front to expose a shadow of cleavage. It wasn’t that she had dressed with a view to seducing him, merely that at times she liked to be appreciated, admired, faintly lusted after. She was a highly-sexed woman. And since Simonelli wasn’t around - the decision to stay home was his, not hers - any halfway attractive male who happened by was a fly to her spider.
‘So sell yourself to me, Mr Lux. What makes you so good you can justify such a pay cheque?’
Lux stretched out his legs, crossed them at the ankle, and locked his fingers across his lean belly.
‘Well, I could feed you any old garbage, couldn’t I? I could tell you how many jobs I’d successfully completed. I could emphasise the risks this one entails - quote risk factors and give you a mathematical assessment of the prospects not only of pulling it off but of avoiding a long stay at the Chateau d’If.’
‘And I might even believe you,’ Sheryl said. Her head was beginning to throb, not enough to warrant the usual remedy, a fistful of Paracetamol, but it was unlikely to go away on its own.
‘And I could tell you to shove it and take off, back home maybe. And by home I don’t mean France, I mean Stateside.’
‘So why don’t you?’ Sheryl’s curiosity was genuinely aroused.
He sighed long and viscerally. ‘If you really got to know, it’s because certain people over there want to question me and I’m not anxious to be questioned.’
She nodded slowly. ‘You could stay in England.’
‘Wouldn’t help. Barail has friends at Scotland Yard or whatever they call it. They already checked me in at the airport. They’ve probably cased this place. Maybe I could give them the slip, but who needs the hassle. Anyhow …’
‘Yes?’
He ran stubby fingers through his lank hair, leaving it in disarray. ‘I like France. My wife is … was … French. That’s why I settled there originally.’
‘Is your wife dead?’
‘We divorced. She was the daughter of a government minister. She was also impossible to live with.’
‘Did she know about you … what you do, I mean?’ Sheryl tried to envisage being married to a hit man. She couldn’t. But then she couldn’t envisage marriage to anyone.
‘No … and yes. I mean, she had her suspicions. Now and again, usually when she was drunk or high on … on …’ A shadow passed over his face, like a cloud crossing a meadow. ‘Well, whatever, when her guard dropped she used to come out with some remark that told me she was secretly afraid of me. Not that I ever gave her reason to be. I mean, I never smacked her around or anything.’ Lux stared out of the window, seeing nothing but memories, like old snapshots in a dog-eared album. ‘When she left me, she said it was because I had no humanity.’
Sheryl found herself feeling sorry for this husky, good-looking American, killer or no.
‘No humanity? What a strange thing to say.’
‘Is it? I thought I knew what it meant, but I looked it up just the same. Just to be sure. I couldn’t believe that was how she saw me.’ He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. ‘But if I lacked humanity, she sure as hell was short on humility. It was a race as to who quit first, and she won by a nose.’
He got up suddenly, prowled about the room, like a big cat in too-confining a cage.
‘And since then?’
‘Since then what?’
‘No relationships?’
‘Not to speak of. Casual stuff, that’s all.’ He grinned at her, looking almost boyish. ‘I haven’t gone off women.’
Subconsciously, Sheryl fluffed out her hair. ‘Not scarred for life then.’
‘No.’
Their eyes met and held.
‘So …’ Sheryl said, a hint of tremor in her voice. ‘To get back to the matter of money.’
‘Tell you what,’ Lux said, taking a couple of steps across the green carpet, bringing him to within touching range of her. ‘Why don’t you forget about money for a while and take your clothes off?’
She stared at him, her mouth parting, her eyes round. ‘Are you on the level?’
‘Try me.’
Suddenly, as if Lux’s words were a cure for all ills, the headache was gone.
* * *
Simonelli pressed the disconnect button of his cellphone and turned to Barail.
‘She’s agreed,’ he announced, sounding awed, which he was somewhat. ‘Ten million fucking dollars.’
A grunt from Barail, who was pouring his third cognac of the evening.
‘Let’s hope he’s worth it.’
‘You would know more about that than I.’ Simonelli frowned. ‘You know, Sheryl sounded very strange … as if she were ... Well, you understand what I am saying?’
‘You mean she sounded as if she was being fucked, I presume.’
Simonelli, man of the world though he was, had his prudish side and disapproved of Barail’s vulgarity towards his mistress.
‘I … er, suppose so.’
‘Sounds logical,’ Barail said nonchalantly, before taking a swallow at his cognac.
‘What do you mean - logical?’
‘Well, Mademoiselle Glis
ter is a handsome woman and friend Lux is a handsome man. She’s just agreed to pay his price, so he’s feeling grateful. Or maybe she’s feeling grateful. Do you need graphics?’
Simonelli’s eyes slitted. He feared Barail’s analysis was accurate and begrudged Lux his apparent easy conquest. He was not in love with Sheryl and was not jealous of her or any of his other current bed mates in the conventional sense. Yet, he did not take kindly to women paying him back in his own two-timing coin.
* * *
Simonelli’s villa was on a single level and built into a rocky shelf facing out over the Golfe d’Ajaccio, after the town of that name. From the terrace was a precipitous drop onto some rocks that jutted like rotten teeth from the crystal blue waters; behind the house a vast forest on a long shelving slope. A pure blue sky crowned the idyll.
Simonelli was stretched out on a sun bed, face to the sky, using a cordless telephone to speak to Paris. It was hot for February. He was dressed only in skimpy swimming trunks and his body was lean and muscular, made imperfect only by a jagged raised cicatrice along his rib cage, wages of an argument with a broken bottle some twenty years earlier.
A girl of about half his age was perched on the edge of the sun bed; she wore a one-piece swimsuit, daringly cut. She was Italian, her name was Angelica and she was Simonelli’s mistress of the moment. She also had a penchant for bondage which dovetailed well with Simonelli’s penchant for dispensing punishment.
Simonelli was relaxed, having lunched well, and was anticipating an afternoon romp with Angelica before leaving for the mainland.
‘Any news from our friend?’ he enquired into the mouthpiece, changing subjects and cutting across some political gossip that couldn’t have interested him less.
‘The briefest imaginable,’ was the dry response. ‘He telephoned yesterday to say that he was inspecting your recommended locations. So far he is not optimistic. He will be ready to report his preliminary findings the day after tomorrow.’
Involuntarily Simonelli glanced at his watch to check today’s date, except that his wrist was bare; he had removed the watch when undressing. A finicky man, he never sunbathed wearing accessories as strips of pallid skin offended his sense of purity. This fastidiousness did not extend to the area of his loins, for, like many Corsicans, he was inclined to be prudish.
Angelica unscrewed the top off a bottle of tanning oil and waved it under Simonelli’s nose. Scowling, he rolled over, onto his stomach.
‘What else did he have to say?’ he asked into the phone as she set to work on his well-browned back.
‘Else? That was all. Were you expecting something in particular?’
‘No. If you are confident in his ability, I have no quarrel with the slowness of his progress.’
‘Bien,’ from the voice in Paris. ‘In any event I have summoned him to a progress meeting at Venoy the day after tomorrow. I suggest you join us, if you wish to keep your playmate from the land of the free fully up-to-date.’
‘The Commissaire speaks in riddles.’ The tone was faintly sardonic. ‘Expect me sometime tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Have a safe flight.’
‘A demain.’
Angelica, her red-gold hair swaying in sympathy with the movement of her torso as she massaged oil into the taut skin of her lover, noted the lines of tension that Simonelli’s jaw had acquired in the last minute. She left off her oiling to kiss the nape of his neck, just below where his hair ceased to grow. He shrugged off the gesture.
‘Who is this man you dislike so much?’ she asked, which was unwise of her for Simonelli drew strict lines between business and pleasure and was not in any case loose of tongue.
He rolled over, onto his side and grabbed her wrist; the bottle of sun oil flew from her hand and skittered across the flagstones. She reared back, startled and not a little scared.
‘Do not concern yourself with what does not concern you, little dove,’ he snarled, and she cringed from him, eyes blinking, mouth working, stammering.
‘Silence!’ He rose, dragging her up with him. She was tiny of stature and his near-six feet made him seem a giant. Behind him was all sky, and outlined against it he looked like a wrathful god.
‘Keep to what you are good for,’ he snarled, and his mouth crushed hers, peeling her lips off her teeth. She clung to him, suppressing her fear with simulated desire. Kissing harder and harder.
He pressed her down onto the flagstones. The pebbled surface bruised her back, but she knew better than to complain. Fear and greed made her not merely compliant but passionate. She gave as good as she received, and more. She gave value for money.
And as she gave she wished away the next twenty-four hours so that she could once more be free of him for a while. Free to entertain Jean-Luc, her true love.
PART FIVE
MARCH
Madness in the Air
Thirteen
* * *
In the near two weeks since his trip to London Lux had reflected at length and in depth on the feasibility of assassinating the French President. He had perused the reams of highly secret documentation supplied by Barail that detailed the President’s official programme and timetable, his daily routine, his habits, his personal friends, and his leisure activities. He focused especially on the strength and nature of the presidential bodyguard and the other routine precautions to prevent attempts on his life.
He travelled about France to visit the more promising of the sites identified by Simonelli. He was not impressed. His conclusions were identical in all key respects to those of Simonelli. He could get in. He could make the hit. But of exits there were none, or at least none he was willing to put to the test. In the assassination business there is no such thing as a dry run. You either get it right on the day or you’re finished.
The killing itself was an entirely practical proposition. This was no unconquered peak he was attempting to climb. Round the clock, day-in, day-out celebrity protection is achievable on paper but not in real life. Some chink in the armour plating always comes to light if you chip away for long enough: a subornable bodyguard, servant, or mistress for instance has caused the downfall of more than one tyrant. And no individual, whatever his status, can avoid being separated from his protective shield at times, if only under the shower or in bed. Oh, yes, he could kill Chirac all right, given long enough to prepare. He could do it - but he doubted he would survive to profit from it.
No scruple plagued Lux, no feeling of pity for his victim. From what he had seen and heard of Chirac on French television he was no more or less worthy than any other leading statesman. Lux had nothing against the man, personally or politically. But he was only mortal, like all the others whose lives Lux had ended. Undeserving of premature death but, as the head of a prominent state, sure to be conscious that it could happen at any moment. It went with the job.
Now here Lux was again, closeted with his employers, to review progress and plan the next step. In the same room of the same chateau with the burble of doves outside complemented by a selection of other gossiping birdlife. It was warm outside and in - warm enough to allow an open window. The log fire crackled cosily in the hearth that was big enough to hold a party in. Simonelli was standing with his back to it, his arms folded, one gleaming foot tapping.
‘We must have regular feedback,’ he said to Lux who, like Barail, was seated in an overstuffed armchair with a chintzy cover. ‘Making contact as and when you feel the need is not acceptable. The timing of the political moves are linked to the ... ah ... fate of the President. Regular progress reports are vital.’ He did a half-turn, to confront Barail, as if suddenly remembering his presence. ‘Is this not also your opinion, Commissaire?’
Barail’s nod was acknowledgement not acquiescence. ‘You and Mr Lux must work together as you both see fit. For his part, he is a professional. Placing constraints on his technique is not in our best interests. There is no point in employing a man of proven ability, clearly able to function independently, then manacling him to
so many rules and conditions that his basic talents are submerged by them.’ Barail massaged his bulbous jaw, already shaded with stubble; he would need a second turn with the razor before dinner. ‘Having said this, since you ask my opinion, yes - regular feedback is not an option but a necessity. If this creates an impasse, you must find a way around it.’
Working to a schedule was not Lux’s style. He was no chessman, operating on a board of black and white squares, to be positioned according to the whim of his employer.
He put this to them bluntly, adding, ‘Get this - my dislike of routine reporting isn’t an idiosyncrasy, it’s a practical precaution. Two reasons: reports can be intercepted, whether they be telephoned or written. An overheard conversation, a letter wrongly delivered ... whichever, the risk of a third party learning of the plot is increased. Secondly, any regular pattern at all is to be avoided. Once it’s noticed it becomes a simple matter to monitor it.’
‘You’re being paranoid,’ Simonelli said scathingly. ‘Who will notice a weekly telephone call for instance?’
‘No, Rafael, he is right.’ This support from Barail was unexpected by Lux and Simonelli alike. ‘It is like the soldier running across an open stretch of land under enemy fire. He zigzags to avoid the bullets. However, if the pattern of his zigzags are unvarying the enemy will be able to anticipate them and will pick him off.’ He turned to Lux. ‘You must operate as you see fit. All we ask is that you keep us informed at frequent intervals. If the intervals must also be irregular, we will adapt.’
Simonelli began to stride about, passing and re-passing through the fantail of sunlight from the open window.
‘Very well, very well. We will accept sporadic reports but no more than five days between each one.’
Lux sighed. He was against it but willing to compromise.
‘If you insist.’
‘I will give you a cellphone number,’ Barail said. ‘It must be used no more than three times, then it will be changed. On each third call I will give you the new number. Now, apropos of other business: did you receive the first draft, the ten per cent of your fee?’